


Less Than a Fortnight

by Lunasong365



Series: Good Omens Holiday Exchange [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Edwardian Period, Historical References, London, Matchmaking, Multi, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: Crowley tries his hand at match-making in Edwardian England.





	Less Than a Fortnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/gifts).



> Written as a gift for nny for the [2017 Good Omens Exchange.](https://go-exchange.dreamwidth.org/217681.html) The prompt was: Aziraphale/Crowley, and the song the 12 days of Christmas, both literal and full of mishaps.  
> Even though this is based on a Christmas carol, there's nothing seasonal about it - so enjoy any time of the year!  
> Thank you to my beta, [athousandelegies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandelegies/pseuds/athousandelegies).

 

 

 

London – mid-December, 1908

 

“This is the third time you’ve turned around to check on that couple,” Crowley said, gesturing with his wine glass. “What’s up?”

Aziraphale grimaced and returned his attention to his dining partner. “It’s my latest project. See that gentleman? No… don’t stare at him! He’ll notice.”

“Notice what? That _you’ve_ been gawking all evening at him and his lady friend? What’s going on?”

“He’s in true love.”

“Pfft.”

“Don’t pfft. Just because you don’t understand love doesn’t mean it’s not real.” Aziraphale primly swirled his wine and sniffed it. “Ah! A touch of clove, with a hint of elderberry and an indistinct background note… let’s see…”

Crowley stared at him while deliberately polishing off his own glass.

The angel took a sip, letting the liquid linger on his tongue. “Earthy. Like mushrooms… perhaps dust…” His oenophilic musing was interrupted by a snort from across the table.

“You would know.”

“Well yes, I do know. I can sense it, unlike you. He’s a nice [1] young man from the neighbourhood around the bookshop. He wants to woo the dear girl, but alas, he hasn’t the funds for something fancy. I managed to surreptitiously arrange for this dinner at the Ritz. Does it look like they’re having an agreeable time?”

[1] Aziraphale’s definition of ‘nice’ was anyone who’d never stopped inside the bookshop.

Crowley looked over Aziraphale’s shoulder. The young lady was toying with something on her plate with a fork, while her suitor appeared to laboriously be trying to engage her in conversation.

“She doesn’t like her dinner.”

“Nonsense. It’s ‘Partridge in a Pear Tree.’ We had it last week. The little roasted game bird accompanied by succulent brandied pears? It was delicious.”

Crowley hummed in recollection. “Oh, yeah. It _was_ good. Could’ve used a touch more brandy.” The demon returned his attention to the hapless couple, pensively drumming his fingers against the tabletop. He suddenly changed tone.

“Aziraphale, let me have this one.”

“What, the rest of this torte?”

“Nah. I owe you one for Hull. Let me do this good deed for you.”

Aziraphale countered proprietarily, “Why? What do you know about love?”

“Perhaps more than you might think. C’mon. Give me a fortnight – no, less than a fortnight – and I bet you I’ll have them dancing in each other’s arms.”

Aziraphale turned around one more time. The young man was staring out the window while the young lady picked at a fingernail. He shuddered.

Perhaps this particular job _was_ better pawned off on the demon.

Crowley was looking at him expectantly. The solicitous waiter came around with the bill.

“Very well. You can have it. But you know I can’t wager on the outcome. After all, I’m an angel, and in the grand scheme of things, those of angel stock always win.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“Which is?”

Crowley tossed the bill folder at Aziraphale. _“You_ can have _this._ And I’m of angel stock too.”  

***

Aziraphale had given his counterpart the young man’s business address, a bicycle shop off a shabby street in Soho. The demon strolled there the following afternoon and jiggled the doorknob. The tiny storefront was locked, so he rapped the knocker.

The door opened a crack, revealing the face of the man from the restaurant. He took in Crowley’s dark glasses, fine wool coat, and homburg hat, and quickly tried to shut the door. Crowley wedged his foot in the gap.

“I’m sorry! Whatever money I owe you, I’ll pay it back!”

“You don’t owe me any money. I want to talk to you about the young lady you were with at the Ritz last night.”

The door remained unmoved. “Johanna? Sir, I swear I meant no harm. I didn’t know she was bespoken to anyone.”

Crowley chuckled. “That’s not mine to say. What’s your name, lad?”

“Truelove. Edgar Truelove.”

The surname caught Crowley by surprise. “And do you have intentions for Miss Johanna?”

“Well… sure! I mean… I’d like to get to know her better. I’m not sure she fancies me.”

“Say no more! What if I told you that I can help you? I have a plan for courtship that is guaranteed to change the young lady’s mind about you… at little or no cost to you, I might add.”

Edgar opened the door. “Mister, I’ll talk to you. But, why me? How did you know where to find me?”

“Let’s just say,” Crowley said as he swept into the shop, “you’ve got an angel looking out for you.” 

***

A week later, Crowley was at St. James’s Park, sitting with Aziraphale near the lake, and pelting a non-responsive flock of waterfowl with breadcrumbs. He scowled.

“Look at them, lazy cusses. Half-dozen of ‘em, just layin’ around in the grass…”

“Lying.”

“Beg pardon?”

“The geese are lying.” Aziraphale creased the top of the paper sack in his lap and placed it carefully on the bench at his side.

“I’m not here to discuss the morality of geese. I’d post short odds you started feeding them before I got here.”

Aziraphale looked guilty and pulled his gabardine ulster coat closer to guard against the haphazard breezes that swirled across the lake. “You know I don’t approve of gambling. Well, go on then. Tell me how the project is coming along. Does she love him yet?”

“I’m working on it! You’d already arranged for the dinner at the Ritz. Their next date was people-watching at Trafalgar Square. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as pleasant as I’d hoped.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“They both got shat on by those confounded turtle doves that congregate there.”

“Are you sure they were turtle doves? They might have been wood doves.”

“They could have been European swallows for all that it matters. They were pigeons, Aziraphale, okay? I’m just trying to go with the ‘love’ theme.” Crowley seemed to choke on the word and covered his discomfort with a cough. “Anyway, the next day, they went to Smithfield Poultry Market. I thought – maybe they’d like to cook dinner together? I’d arranged for them to pick up some hens for a dinner of coq a vin. Turns out his lady friend doesn’t know how to cook.”

“How did you know that?”

“I was the chaperon on that date. I wasn’t going to miss out on a meal that features wine sauce.”

Aziraphale sighed wistfully in agreement. “I know exactly what you mean, dear boy.”

“I ended up having to do the cooking. Edgar helped. Johanna got four calls on the house phone while we were there! All girlfriends. Bunch of gabby birds… I tell you, angel, the telephone has a lot of potential for my side. Calls during dinner are delightfully annoying! Anyway, it made Edgar feel a bit awkward, so he and I excused ourselves afterwards and went to White City Stadium.”

“Where the Olympics were held?”

"It’s a dog-racing track now. Called ‘Five Rings’. He won five guineas.” The demon smirked as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, gazing expectantly past Aziraphale down the path.

Aziraphale frowned. “I suppose you had nothing to do with that.”

“It’s good for a person to have a little extra money. It encourages them to spend it on frivolous things.”

“He hardly earned it by the sweat of his brow.”

“Does that matter? It’s his now. Oh, look – here they come. No… don’t stare! He’ll notice.”

Edgar and Johanna were strolling along the path that edged the lake. Johanna was perfectly turned out for a Sunday promenade, with a large white hat trimmed in egret feathers and an ermine hand-warmer. Edgar’s felted stiff-brim looked new. As they passed the adversarial companions sitting on the bench, an errant gust of wind lifted Johanna’s fabulous hat from her coif and sent it sailing across the water. It landed amidst a small flock of swans, four which scattered and three which turned and angrily started pecking at the intruder.

Johanna shrieked as Edgar frantically started hopping about to untie his boots before a gallant attempt to retrieve the hat.

Crowley exploded with mirth. Aziraphale resignedly waved his hand.

The hat gently lifted from the water and wafted to shore, landing by Johanna’s feet. She excitedly gestured to the floundering Edgar. Aziraphale benevolently smiled, then turned to a still-snickering Crowley.

“No wonder she’s not in love with him yet! You just couldn’t resist, could you?” Aziraphale groused. “I should rescind this project from you right now. I should have known you couldn’t handle it.”

“No… no! Aziraphale, I had nothing to do with that! Can’t one have mirth without mischief? Listen!” Crowley pointed toward the retreating duo, who were having a conversation which could only be overheard by a pair of supernatural meddlers.

“Hmph,” the angel harrumphed. “So she appreciates his chivalrous gesture. Let’s follow them.”

The courting couple headed east toward Horse Guards Parade as the bickering couple shadowed them from a discreet distance.

“Edgar’s a velocipede mechanic,” recounted Aziraphale in a more conciliatory tone. “Johanna’s a nursemaid. Funny. I didn’t know one could be a nursemaid without… er… you know… no longer being a maiden.”

“No… you’re thinking of wet nurse,” Crowley corrected, pulling on his gloves to ward against the increasingly chilly air as the shadows lengthened with the setting sun. “She’s a nursery maid. She’s employed by one of the minor peers – a baron, I believe – but due to the collapse of estates the household staff has been reduced down to eight. So she also has to milk their cow.”

“They all work so hard at many different jobs,” Aziraphale mused as their footsteps crunched on the graveled path. “Remember back when one was either a hunter or gatherer?”

“’Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief’,” Crowley recited. [2] “It seems that those who have the most often sweat the least.” He grinned at his addition to the rhyme. “Well – here’s where we stop.”

[2] Crowley was well-versed in nursery rhymes, knowledge which would come in handy many years later.

They had arrived at the large open area of the Parade Grounds, where the Household Division, turned out in full dress, were already beating retreat. Edgar and Johanna were at the far end of the small assembly watching the military ceremony, so the demon and angel assumed places on the opposite side. The audience marvelled at the precision and manoeuvres of the marching corps, an ennead of drummers marking the steady cadence.

As the last bugle note faded into dusk, the crowd dispersed. Crowley and Aziraphale continued trailing Edgar and Johanna as he escorted his lady friend home. The street lights along their passage flickered on as they let the couple gradually increase the gap between them. Even though the sky was dark, it wasn’t particularly late. Horse-drawn trams and carriages passed by, along with several of the ever-increasing number of motor taxis and private autos on London streets.

Crowley was quite enamoured by the belching vehicles which lurched in a most unpredictable manner.

“I’m going to get one,” said Crowley decisively.

“Oh, come on,” Aziraphale said. “There’s a reason being sensible is called horse sense.”

“There’s not one horse,” Crowley rebutted, “that’s made sense to me. You have to admit they’re much cleaner than horses. They’re efficient! Their engine power is measured in multiples of horses! And they use that waste product from the distillation of kerosene for fuel, instead of acres of hay.”

“But why would you ever need your own car? There’s plenty of options for public transport. It took us five hours to get to Manchester [3] by train earlier this month, but by auto it would take at least seven – and that’s if it doesn’t break down or slide into a ditch or get a flat tire or get held up by a flock of sheep…”

[3] Aziraphale had dragged Crowley to the premiere of Elgar’s first Symphony. Crowley personally thought the concert had lasted an eternity, but the train ride with the angel had gone by in a flash.

“But think of it! Being able to go wherever and whenever you want, not beholden to some schedule – and now that humans are flying in aeroplanes, they won’t even need roads. Just imagine soaring through the sky…”

“But, Crowley, you already…”

Aziraphale’s response was interrupted by the shrieks of an unseen woman emanating from around the next corner.

“Johanna!” Crowley exclaimed with alarm. He took off at a run with Aziraphale huffing behind.

The demon careened around the corner and almost crashed into a barricade blocking a large hole in the asphalt. A geyser of water was erupting from an exposed water main, spraying about ten feet above the street level. Under it was Johanna, her lovely hat dripping and bedraggled and her long cloak soaked. Edgar was trying to pull her away from the unexpected fountain. An assortment of muddy pipefitters were clambering out of the hole, offering apologies.

“Terribly sorry, miss – the piping just let go!”

Aziraphale gazed thoughtfully into the barricaded hole as the water pressure slowed to a trickle. The pipers and Johanna had definitely gotten the worst of it, and Edgar helped his companion out of her cloak and offered her his coat and muffler. Crowley hung back in the shadows, mortified, not wanting to be seen.

The whole project was turning out to be one disaster after another.  

***

The next day Crowley triumphantly stopped by the bookshop. Aziraphale looked up from the _Daily Telegraph_ crossword to the demon’s smug smile. “I take it things turned out better than you had expected last night,” he said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. You can never predict how humans will react. Edgar called this morning. Johanna thought the whole afternoon was a lark! And she thinks Edgar is gallant and charming and has a grand sense of humour. Now she wants to go dancing with him.”

“Dancing! But… people of that class don’t get invited to balls.”

Crowley nodded. “Precisely. That’s why I’ve just come from making arrangements at Chez Mimi. There’s plenty of dancers there – cabaret-style. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know any men that could pair with them?”

“Well, I am still a member of that gentlemen’s club off Portland Place. I’ll give them a ring and see if some of them can join us. But… cabaret dancers? Are you sure that’s… appropriate?”

“As appropriate as that lot of hop-skipping queers from that club of yours.” 

***

Crowley opened the door for Aziraphale, and he peered inside apprehensively. The interior of Chez Mimi seemed rather decorous once its exotic stage trappings had been concealed behind curtains. The floor had been cleared of tables, and the cabaret dancers had eschewed their usual attire for some comparatively modest ball gowns. Cocktails in hand, they were chatting up the gentlemen from the club as the band set up in the corner.

One of the men caught Aziraphale’s eye and hailed him. He was quite elderly but spryly greeted the angel with a skip step and capriole. “Mr Fell! Lovely party you’ve arranged! Such charming young ladies! Too bad we’re not doing the gavotte tonight!” The man offered an exaggerated wink but was whisked away by his giggling partner before Aziraphale had a chance to react.

Crowley scanned the room for Edgar and Johanna. “Oh, good! They’re here!” He signaled to the bandleader to start playing, and soon eleven couples filled the floor with the colourful whirl of a waltz. The supernatural pair watched with satisfaction as Johanna and Edgar swept by, Johanna laughing as Edgar smiled.

“Well, my dear boy, I’d say you did it. Less than a fortnight and they’re dancing in each other’s arms. My hearty congratulations.” Aziraphale sighed and leaned against the bar, his toe tapping to the music. “Sadly, I’m the only member of the club without a partner.”

Crowley mumbled, “Youcoulddancewithme.”

“Eh?”

“I said – you could dance. With me.” The demon turned to look at Aziraphale, tilting his head down slightly so his golden eyes met Aziraphale’s blue ones. He took a step backward and held out his hand.

The moment seemed frozen in time.

 

 

 

Suddenly the front door flung open with a bang, and a squad of police officers swarmed into the club. “Hands up! Freeze! It’s a raid!” the burly copper at the front shouted. The other bobbies spread out through the room, poking nightsticks under the curtains and shining electric torches into people’s faces.

“Nothing irregular here, Sergeant,” a constable reported. “No painted ladies, no homosexual activity, no gambling.”

“Private party, sir,” Aziraphale said, lowering his hands.

“I suppose you have a permit for it?”

“Of course I have a permit for it,” Crowley interjected, fumbling his hands through his evening jacket pockets.

Just then, Johanna started shrieking again.

 

 

“Yes, YES! Of course I’ll marry you, Edgar!”

The dancers surrounded the happy couple with shouts of congratulations, and the policemen tipped their hats and tactfully exited.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley.

“It would appears that wagering against you is quite the risky proposition. I’m thankful I had no reason to do it.”

Crowley again held out his hand in invitation.

“Perhaps so. But it’s even riskier to bet against love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: For the ordering of the song I used a book I found at Aziraphale’s bookshop called _Mirth without Mischief: The Twelve Days of Christmas. Sung at King Pepin’s Ball_ (1780). The tune and words with which most of us are familiar are from an arrangement dated 1909, and thus postdate this tale.
> 
> I tried to be true to Edwardian culture, fashion, and technology, and found this blog to be an invaluable resource: www.edwardianpromenade.com


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